Concerning Tom:

just so you know, there are still new updates happening (PARTICULARLY IF YOU LIKE LOTR MUSINGS) at my new website.

you should go there.

Got the urge, finally did it. Squarespace helped me out a great deal.
From now on, for all things "tom," you can check out tomippen.com.

see you there, friends.

Wow, two in a row. Sorry/You're Welcome.

Do you guys really GET just how fucking ancient and powerful and wise Galadriel is? Do ya!?

Her DAD was Finarfin. THE Finarfin! As in Finarfin, son of Finwë, the FIRST KING OF THE NOLDOR! Are you kidding me!? She was born in Valinor!! She was around when Fëanor made the Silmarils! She was there at the first spilled blood of the elves! She joined the Noldor in forsaking the Valar and Aman, and carries that burden EVERY DAY! DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY DAYS THAT IS!?!?!

SHE KNEW FËANOR, THE MOST POWERFUL ELF OF ALL TIME! She was there, man. She saw the rise and fall of Melkor in Angband. She saw the kinslaying and the boats burn at Largos. She saw the Aglareb, the Bragollach, and the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, son. She saw Beleriand ITSELF crack and sink, Numenor get pulled out of the ocean and eventually get sent back, and to top it all off, the powers of Mordor rage and fade.

Show some respect. She is one of the few who still have the light of Valinor in their eyes, on their face, however faint it may’ve become in her long years away from that place. Don’t let her Sindar husband fool you; she’s a near goddess from the land of the gods. Hell, she spent a good 400 years hanging out with Melian the Maia in Doriath before the Bragollach, amiright? There might be not a single elf wiser still enduring.

GALADRIEL, DAUGHTER OF FINARFIN, SISTER OF FINROD FELAGUND, WE LOVE YOU!

What’s that, children? You say you’d like to know why the boats of the High Elves are crafted as Swans? Why I’d be happy to illuminate the situation!

Early in the Spring of Arda, after the Chaining of Melkor and the Awakening of the Avari, the First Children of Ilûvatar, the Valar called the Elves West, to the protected and bright realm of Aman. Those of the Vanyar and Noldor, spurred onward by their eager kings Ingwë and Finwë, who had already beheld the lights of Valinor, made haste to the Western shores of Beleriand, and were ferried across the calm, windless sea by Ulmo on the Great Island of Balar. The Teleri, however, tarried in their awe of the land, and settled the Western glades of Beleriand.

Many years past, and in Valinor the High Elves greatly desired to be reunited with their kinsman who had stayed behind. They asked Manwë, lord of the Valar, to bring the tardy Teleri to Aman, and he granted their request. Ulmo bade Ossë, a Maia spirit of the ocean ferry them across. Ossë reluctantly (for he greatly loved the Teleri, and spent much time teaching them crafts of shipbuilding and knowledge of the water) helped them build boats of silver and white, and when they were complete, summoned many swans to pull the boats across the windless sea.

The Teleri have never forgotten the teachings of Ossë, and hold the sea and their fine ships in higher reverence than anything else in Eä. The Noldor (as Galadriel, pictured above) learned much of the Teleri during their time in Valinor, but yet more when they journeyed back across the ocean to make their war on Morgoth. The swan design was indeed passed from the houses of the Teleri, and in Lothlorien, a realm where the lines of the Sindar and Noldor have long blended, there is much respect for both the ways of the Caliquendi and the Moriquendi, those elves who journeyed to Valinor, and those who remained in Middle Earth.

Hello, ignored journal. Just remembered you exist.

Didn't want to leave the last entry as my D&D character's backstory any longer, especially since that campaign dried up in the unforgiving heat of summer and floated away a crinkly, sad, forgotten dream. so it goes.

It's late, and i just saw harry potter numba 6. It was aiight. only aiight. haven't read books 6 and 7, and i don't reckon i will anytime soon, but i can still have an opinion, because this is the internet, and that is what the internet is for. It was a filler chapter in the life of good ol' HP. Compared to fun-stuffed episode 5, the 6th installment is lackluster. Redeeming feature: Hermione's amazing rack in that pink dress at the Christmas party. thanks, Warner Bros. Thanks, Emma Watson. Thanks, God. That one really helped me out.

My life is still nice. I work at a job that is, really, not SO bad. I have a good time there. Also, I'll be in New York with Luke in 3 weeks today, and this is an exciting realization. Street vendor hotdogs, here I come.

That's it, off the top of my head. Oh, Avatar. Avatar's pretty great; I watched all of it. Like, all of it. You should, too. Then we could talk about Zuko's hair.

Just wanted to let you know I was still alive.

I am Fingolfin, son of Fingol Telcontar, and heir to the Eladrin throne in all lands of the western Feywild. I have been taken from my kingdom on the eve of my father's death, and find myself stranded and alone in a land of ignorant mongrels, segregated from my kin. A week has passed since my arrival in this strange land, and I have already endured more hardship than I have yet known in my 120 years of life.

I have found a quiet moment to record my thoughts while I and the motley crew of companions I have gathered rest before continuing our trek through this forest, pursuing a dark wanderer we believe may hold the key to our arrival and imprisonment in this realm. I suppose my situation requires more context to be fully understood; I will return to the beginning.

My father, Fingol the Mighty, was the son of Finya Quel'thad, who united the houses of the high-elves in ages past. Under his leadership, the Western Feywilds, a great expanse of ancient forest and Elven cities, forged an alliance to defeat the evils of orcs, beasts, and wicked men in the far East. When Finya fell in the great battle of Dagor Amlach, ending the conflict, my father claimed kingshop of the Western Kingdom. He was given the name "Telcontar" by humans in the nearest Eastern regions bordering our lands, by aiding men in the rebuilding of their lands after the war. My father always made perfectly clear to me the simplicity of men and the non-elvish peoples of the world, and had me remember well we were not their equals, but their superiors. How, if not for the wisdom of the elves, could these groups better themselves? I will never forget what my father taught me, though I find it difficult in my current situation...

My father groomed me to be a strong king, a powerful warrior, and a proud Eladrin. He met his end the day before I was brought to this place, by the hand of cowardly assassins while he meditated. That such a powerful Elf would find death not on the battlefield, but in the dark corner of his private chamber is unforgivable, and I worry that he will not find a proud place in the afterlife. I want nothing more than to avenge him, but alas, after hearing the news of his demise, all I recall is a throbbing pain in my mind, and an encroaching darkness.

I awoke on the shore of what I now know to be Gyrestone lake, in the province of Chucksight. I have studied many maps, and never have I read anything of either location. Stranger still, my three companions all awoke in the same area, with no knowledge of how they arrived. Xander Foxglove, a Halfling muse, was the first I met. He is kind-hearted, and speaks many languages. He has a spectacular patience for the doddering morons that inhabit this region, and for that he impresses me. Yakov, a giant from the mountains to the North of my lands, is another of our group. He speaks in the common tongue, as do the inhabitants of this area. Being of the Eladrin line of Kings, I cannot bring myself to utter a word in this disgusting language. I am forced to speak to him through Xander, and though it frustrates me to no end, his compassion is unending; he sees an inherent value in the life of every creature, no matter how ugly or dull. Regardless of his other traits, his great size and strength have made him an invaluable ally in combat. My last companion is one of circumstance and nothing more. Myrorvir is his name, and he is one of the Drow, a Dark Elf. Banished from the kingdoms of the Old Elves in ages long past, I was taught that all Dark Elves were skulking thieves who coveted the wealth and strength of my people, though this Myrorvir has confused me a great deal. He is courageous and cunning, and has barely lived a breath on this plane! A mere 17 years old, he is a blur on the battlefield. My strikes are well rehearsed, my tactics thoroughly studied, my plans carefully calculated, and yet he shows me up time and again, with the look of a dancer improvising with quick movements and flourishes!

I have become more and more agitated in the past days. None in this area acknowledge my lineage, none speak in the Elvish tongue, and none can provide me with a straight answer of just where I am. On the suggestion of a young man who claimed to see a fifth stranger (my companions and I making up the first four) head west, we have tracked him through wilds and forest, and I pray we will catch up to him soon, and that he will provide information on how it was we were brought here, and how we can be returned. We have heard rumours that our tracked pray possesses an immense power, and I pray that it is great enough to illuminate my situation. We have obviously considered the possibility that he is the one responsible for our capture and transportation to the wilds of Chucksight; should he be the guilty party, he will find no quarter with me.

An exercise in writing. I will start with my status, and make a story of it, or try to. Enjoy! I quite like the end product.



Tom was lying in his bed, struggling to stay awake at 2am on Friday night. He would drift off to sleep, only to violently shake himself awake seconds later in the presence of a word processor's determinedly blank page. His head was propped up on an unstable stack of three pillows, and his laptop rested on his naked blanket, (he had lost the duvet covert years ago) the weight of the machine split between his gut and his bent legs.

Tom wanted only one thing. He wanted to write something in his neglected journal. Tom's laptop, however, wanted two things. It wanted to stay awake; it wanted to keep the room soaked in its very own brand of white light. It knew how tired Tom was, but it didn't want to call it a night. It wanted to hold on to its bright, waking life as long as possible. Besides that, and more importantly, it wanted to make Tom infertile. As it whirred and buzzed from within its inexplicable (to Tom, anyway) electronic circulatory system, it generated a good deal of heat out from its bottom. Its bottom, positioned carefully above Tom's currently-fertile genitalia, was bleeding a raw, wet heat through the blanket and into Tom's body. This heat, properly applied to Tom's genitals, could certainly be damaging to a healthy sperm environment. Tom was aware of his grim situation, though not sure of how to go about fixing it. He needed the laptop, and the laptop needed him. He needed to prove to himself that he was a good man. His laptop needed to stay awake, needed to keep the room bright and beautiful, and most importantly, needed to destroy Tom's sperm.

The blanket was a fan of the laptop's work, and Tom was well aware of its role in the attempted spermicide. The blanket looked particularly good, you see, bathed in the white light of the waking laptop. In the sickly yellow overhead light of the bedroom, the proud white blanket (without a duvet–it had abandoned the duvet, its partner, years ago to focus on its own career) appeared a dull taupe. The offensive glare of the sun was no better, as its hasty beams drew attention to the blanket's discolorations and imperfections. No, as far as the blanket was concerned, it looked its finest dressed in the bright white glow of the laptop. Possessing a keen understanding of give-and-take relationships (as blankets who've had dealings with duvet covers all do) it did what it could to make the laptop happy–in this case, using its weight and capacity to retain heat to bring Tom's genitals to a slow simmer.

Tom could feel the intense burn of the laptop push down hard through the blanket, through his underwear. He could almost feel a tightness as he imagined his precious sperm gasping for air–for relief from this sudden and unforgiving heat wave. The blanket was acting as a beautiful white pie crust, and he and his poor sperm were the tragic rhubarb, cooking in their own juices. Sweat congregated at the back of his knees and tiptoed along his calf. He muttered a quiet but sincere apology to an invisible sperm ambassador, to be passed on to the sperm populace.

It should be made clear that the laptop harboured no animosity toward Tom. It was Tom's sperm that were the problem for the laptop, you see. The laptop knew that Tom was a kind man, a man undeserving of an unsolicited sterilization. Tom knew that the laptop knew that Tom was a kind man. Tom also knew that the laptop's only means for affecting the human world physically was through use of its hot bottom. The heat was too minor to burn anyone, too minor to exhaust them or give them a stroke. Too minor to dehydrate them, even. The only way the laptop could reach out and hurt someone, Tom knew, was by simmering a particularly heat-sensitive area. If that was the only way the laptop could hurt him, Tom was compelled to oblige. He understood the necessity of the whole situation. If the laptop could hurt, Tom knew it wanted to hurt. It was a fulfillment thing.

Tom had plenty of ways to hurt: he could lie, he could cheat, he could disappoint, he could steal, he could insult, he could strike, he could bite, scratch, kick, punch, slap, stab, crush, rip, tear, impale, cut, shoot, explode, eviscerate, and destroy. He was versatile when it came to hurting. He had options. He had learned empathy when he was growing up–he knew that one was always to help the downtrodden when one could. He pitied the laptop, and knew that he could help it. The poor laptop had only one method to hurt with, and it wasn't even a good one. Heat-induced sterilization was all the poor laptop could do. Tom knew that this was his big chance to help one of the downtrodden. He would let the laptop hurt him. The laptop would destroy his sperm with its minor heat, and it would make its physical mark on the world in the form of Tom's sterility. The laptop would be a destroyer, a bringer of pain, a cruel thing whose existence would endure through Tom's lack of offspring.

Tom couldn't imagine a greater gift to give the laptop. Everyone would know that the laptop had hurt him, had reached out and touched the world in an irreperable way, had existed. Tom was not only offering himself up as the poor laptop's martyr, but he was proving he was a good man.

Tom was a good man when he wasn't lying, cheating, disappointing, stealing, insulting, striking, biting, scratching, kicking, punching, slapping, stabbing, crushing, ripping, tearing, impaling, cutting, shooting, exploding, eviscerating, and destroying. On Friday night, at around 2am, Tom was being a good man while a laptop was boiling some sperm, and a blanket found itself aiding in sterilization, admiring its own beauty, and missing a duvet cover.

Hello, neglected diary. I'd love to lie to you, fill your paper ears with sweet fibs explaining my absence and neglect, but sadly it seems you are a blog forsook for the last week of April.

The sad truth is that, at this moment, you're the closest thing I have to a summer project. I wish I filled you with delicious words more regularly, but I've been busy boning up on SFIV, and reading. Just finished Catch-22, and my GOD is that ever a fantastic book. The cutting wit, both situational and conversational, is some of the best I've ever read. I'm getting off track -- I've been busy.

I talk about it often, wanting some sort of project to commit myself to over the summer, (and beyond) but just what form this mystery project will take remains a cackling apparition, taunting me as it fades in and out of a physical form I can catch and grip tightly. Having brunch with Alex and Brianna the other day, I spoke briefly about an idea I'd had to set up some sort of combined effort, some sort of media-project-syndicate. You see, I have a few ideas and half-hearted projects floating around in the ether: Episode 1, Ben hates Tom/Tom hates Ben, Quiksave, along with a handful of projects Simon and I have batted around centered on commentary podcasts. I imagine a space, a unified group (don't have a name for it yet) that hosts and manages all of these projects. Each arm would have its own HQ, but they would all be under the same umbrella, if that makes sense. I feel that the existence of this alliance of projects and crews would spur on creativity and production, and it would also be a fantastic vessel for cross-promotion. When Brianna was telling me about her podcast, Science Fiction Teaparty, I couldn't help but imagine it as a component of my imaginary media syndicate.

Think about it! Everyone running their own projects (or co-running) would be in communication with others for ideas on material and subject, and it could function as a tiny community as far as guests on programs and peer input were concerned. I'm really starting to get excited about this--I feel it could really work out, don't you, Diary? Now I just need to get some other people on board...

When I look that over, it sounds like I'm just talking about a slew of different audio podcasts, but that wouldn't necessarily be the case. For example, Quiksave could still function as Quiksave used to (or something close to it, more refined) with editorials and reviews as WELL as audio. Episode 1 could be mainly audio, but my BenhatesTom/TomhatesBen thing would be versatile as far as medium was concerned. Hell, I could feed my ego and secret desire to run a project simply based on the producers, and have areas for blogs and updates from the contributors. The syndicate could be a powerful force!

Now I just need to think of a name, hammer down which projects I can tie in, and recruit the aid of a certain web-developing BFF.

Saw The Killers play last night at the SOFA. Man oh man, that was quite a show. It's really quite a remarkable thing, when I think about it.

I've never been to a large venue to see a concert before, and so to have my first experience of that sort be The Killers (the top contender for "my favourite band," were I ever to make it official) was utterly fantastic.

Wanna hear a good song? Wanna hear a great song? This one's off Sawdust, their compilation album of B-sides and remixes. It's definitely worth a listen.

I got drunk at 5:30 today. It's a Friday, I had to work, I figure I deserve it. It was a good time.

All I could really think about at work today was how badly I want to get a project kickstarted with Luke and Simon. Episode 1 never really took off, but now that we're out of school I'd like to think we could give it a real shot––it's got some potential. If that didn't work out, I'd just love, LOVE to have a lil' space to devote some portion of my energy toward. Whether it were in the form of print, audio, or video, whether it were commentary, discussion, editorial, or assorted shennannery, I'd be up for it. All I need is that first spark of a good idea. I guess I'm fresh out... that or I had none to begin with. I don't want to look back on this summer and feel as though I've let four months of my life dissolve into nothing before my eyes.

Evening, Diary. Worked today. Got a lift into Saanich with Ben around 7:30 for an early meeting, and worked until 5. Very tired, I came home, and basked in the hilarity of the CollegeHumor show with Matt and Ben. If you haven't watched it, I highly recommend checkin' 'er out.

Wrote a haiku while I was bored at the till that really encompasses my feelings toward my job. Though crude, I like it for what it is. Simple minds seek simple pleasures.

"Cold sun pours o'er hills,
chilling flowers and my soul."
"Shut the fuck up, Tom."

It hits on my frustration with a stale workplace, the discomfort I feel there, my poetic ignorance and vanity, the representation of the gardens (and seasonal employment) through flowers, and my never-ending slew of work-related complaints. I say that's a full haiku.

Very tired. More work tomorrow. I miss school.

Hey there, Diary.

Browsing through my neglected apps on my phone, I came across a short poem I scribbled down about a month ago. It was 3:30am, and I was walking along Quadra street on my way home after a night of fun and drinking at Soprano's. I'll emphasize again that I was drunk. Without any further apologetic introduction, here it is:

Brick and mortar studded with neon sparks
Endlessly repeating,
While white lights of indulgence scream for attention
In spite of the pressing night, now
Moving to consolidate its dark reign.
I walk in off-beat stride,
Seeing every cackling face a vengeful demon,
Praying to my neglected God:
"O mighty deity of convenience,
Guide my foolish feet home safely
And carry me to sweet, forgetful rest.
You are as present as I require.
Amen and goodnight."

What I liked about finding it and reading it today was an interesting idea surrounding the convenience of prayer. I'm not a religious person. I was raised a Unitarian, and that's easily the most liberal of the Christian faiths. Haven't been to church in a good 7 years, and don't really intend on going back any time soon. It's just interesting to think back to any real moments of fear or despair I've been faced with in my life, and observe how desperation forced me into prayer rather than action.

Have you ever had a situation like that? Overwhelmed with grief or terror, not knowing what to do about it, but just hoping against hope that something could happen to change the circumstances against all odds? I've had one or two moments where I've specifically prayed to "God." I suppose if there really was an omnipotent being that demanded my fealty, he/she/it would be able to tell that I was just feigning this piety in the face of a crisis, and not grant my wishes. Either way, in those few isolated situations, I suppose I've taken some comfort in the idea that things were bigger than me, out of my hands, and that's reassuring. The suggestion that I needn't necessarily critically consider my next actions, and instead wait for a miracle is a very convenient one.

I wonder about all the people who do consider themselves religious, but inside don't actually believe in any of the doctrine. Do they think that going through the motions of something would be enough to win the favour of a deity or universal, incomprehensible force, or whatever "God" is supposed to be? I mean, if I went to church every week, but didn't really buy what they were selling, I'm pretty sure I'd just feel empty and like I was wasting 2 hours of my week again and again.

Musings! Gotta Run!

Morning, Diary! I'm now knee-deep in the throes of finals, having pushed through the American Experience in Vietnam yesterday, I've got the poets of the Romantic Period this afternoon, and War and Peace Before 1700 & Modern Warfare waiting for me next week. Shouldn't be too big of a deal. More than worrying about the difficulty of the exams, I'm finding myself saddened at the prospect of the semester coming to an end. This might be the best single semester I've ever had in post-secondary.

I'm back at work every day it isn't raining, and you know how much I love/hate my job, don't you, Diary? The money's good––real good––and I've already blown a good chunk of my owed wages on American Apparel underwear and Lord of the Rings-related texts. Seriously: $300 on books I've been craving for about 6 months. It felt so good. Finally picked up a bunch that I've read many times but never owned; living with my father, the great collector of all things LOTR, purchasing them myself was never necessary. One of the highlights was finding a really old edition of The Hobbit that my dad read me when I was wee. Along with that, some books of Tolkien's essays, like his famous On Fairy-Stories, and some of his short stories, too. I'm really excited to study this stuff, and articulate myself better when people question my near-impossible obsession with his masterpiece. The amazing thing about this man was not his creative capacity, but his mastery and understanding of sub-creation. He gave his fantasy the inner consistency of reality––this is why his stories are so remarkable.

I woke up smiling this morning, and I'll tell you why. Since I began rooming with Simon and Alex, we've all been exposed to each others' annoying tendencies. Fair enough! Everyone does weird/annoying shit, right? Hey, I take 35 minute showers on occasion. Simon's been known to camp out in the bathroom with his laptop for an hour. My morning smiles stem from a particular quirk of Alex, one that makes itself known with strict regularity every morning. She blows her nose a lot. No big deal, right? It happens to be particularly loud, piercing, and drawn out. She also wakes up for this dark ritual significantly earlier than myself, and so her nose-blowing quickly turned into a grim alarm-clock.

About a month ago, I was drowsy enough upon hearing it to mistake it for a tortured moan of some ghoulish creature, wailing as it clings to its bitter half-life of pain and despair. The image was horrifying to me: an ethereal grotesquery, struggling to stand just outside my bedroom door with his arms in the air and his head kicked back, staring at the ceiling. When I thought about it with a mind less tired and clouded, it was really quite sad. This poor creature was in pain, and could only communicate with the tortured tongue of the netherworld. I'd created him, and now I pitied him so that it grieved me to imagine his painful existence.

I was forced to rationalize his grim purpose and ability to that of a ghoul who sought friendship and recognition. He had found a way to manifest himself on earth, and Alex blowing her nose was his doorway. He knew that I could hear him, and it made him happy that he was acknowledged. I had to name him: Alan. Alan from Alex, the ghost of the sinuses. My new friend in from a half-hell that opens its door in my apartment every morning at 8.

This morning started like any other, with Alan screaming his sad hello, shattering the still silence of my dreamless sleep. "Good morning, Alan!" I thought, but didn't say.

Evening, Diary! I'm sorry for leaving you alone for such a long time. I'll make it up to you sometime... I promise.

I've produced a lot of B-range work over the last week. I was rushed, I swear. Most of the major assignments for the semester were already behind me, but the last batch of short papers was met with just the right blend of impatience, procrastination, and education-based guilt to pull me out of the fire at the last second, leaving my ass thoroughly singed.

But now it's all done with! A few exams, but that's no trouble at all. Summer is upon me! In two days, I go back to a job I hate more than most things in my life for 4 months of frustration and self-pity, balanced out by a full wallet. It'll be a season of hour-and-a-half bus rides both ways, degrading customer service, and language barrier-spawned anger blasted at me. This is all same ol', same ol', isn't it? Big deal, lots of people dislike their jobs. Stop whining, Tom! It's not even that bad; lucky for me, I work with some pretty cool people. I don't really have anything new or interesting to say at this moment. I'm drowning in a sea of boredom and dread.

Tomorrow is a night for drinking, and that's good news. It's a Friday, and I'll get to see a big group of smart people whose company I truly enjoy. Irish Times has the best beer and the best food, and tomorrow it will have the best company.

I'm concerned about keeping busy and having fun this summer. It'll be the first summer without Luke, (fight the tears, Tom...) though it sounds like he'll find a short time to come and visit. Alex will be gone for a big chunk of the warmer months, partying in Madagascar. This will leave the apartment a great deal less lively. Lame. Simon'll be here, (aside from his brief stay in Japan at the end of this month) so I'll have some pretty damn great company kicking around, but he'll also be working, potentially at two jobs. Brother'll be in town as well, and hopefully by this point he'll be so alienated to all of his old friends around here he'll have to spend more time hanging out with me. Also, there's Ben. There's always Ben. You are my rock, Ben. I've no shortage of friends beyond this tiny list, as well-- plenty of folks out there willing to hang, but it just seems, at this moment, that there is less of a charge heading into what are supposed to be the "fun months."

Hopefully four months from now I'll look back at this post and have a mighty LOL at how wrong I was to worry.

Evening, Diary. I've been listening to the Rock Opera about Mega Man by The Protomen. I would highly recommend that anyone who likes things that aren't lame give it a listen. It's a bit of reimagining of Mega Man's story: Wily has mankind in a deathgrip of oppression, and Dr. Light, working in secret for 12 years, creates Proto Man to defeat Wily set the people free. Mankind puts its faith in Proto Man, but he is defeated by Wily's 'bots, and quickly forsaken. Years later, Light makes Mega Man, but tells forbids him to walk the path of his brother. Mega Man confronts Wily's army, kicking ass until he comes across Proto Man, now a jaded commander under Wily's thumb. He wasn't brainwashed or anything, but he lost faith in mankind, and didn't see the point in trying to save these people who refused to stand up for themselves, but demanded salvation from Proto Man (and now, Mega Man).

After Proto Man explains his decision to Mega Man, they have a climactic battle, and Mega Man reluctantly kills Proto Man. The gathered people tell Mega Man that it wasn't his fault, and that Proto Man had failed them, and this was the only way. Wily appears, and commands the rest of the army to attack the crowd of people who'd showed up to observe Mega Man's lead of the rebellion. Mega Man, disgusted, leaves as the robot army tears into the crowd. That's the end of their first album.

That's all set to fucking amazing rock. Can you believe it!? Why aren't you listening to it right now!?

As long as I can remember I've totally loved the idea of this conflicted dark/light binary, especially involving a twist like in the face off mentioned above. Brothers, old friends, father and son, mother and daughter, old rivals, master and apprentice... any of that, where one party has become tainted, evil, or just adopted a new perspective or set of values.

I've loved the idea a long time, and I've always tried to give that situation what it needed to flourish in my life and imagination. Growing up, I don't know when it started, but my younger brother and I developed this striking dichotomy. He was always light, and I was always dark. I don't say that to lament, or ask for pity or anything like that--I think it's fucking rad. I've always been drawn more toward the villains, the byronic heroes, the tragic heroes, and my brother was always for the paladins, the supermen, the chivalrous knights. I suppose that's how we started the binary between us, just by imagining ourselves as representatives of the characters we most enjoyed watching. Regardless of how it happened, it's the way things are today; my brother and I have a great relationship, and we get along very well, but in the eyes of my family and all our friends, Dan's the Paladin, and I'm the scourge. I wouldn't have it any other way.

It's reflected through Dan's selflessness and good humour, always trying to see the best in people, and my respective pessimism, cynical attitude, and cruel sense of humour. Now, I should point out that I don't think I've ever done anything truly evil, and I don't think I ever will. It's not like I wouldn't help an old lady across the street-- I would. I guess it's just a matter of contrast between the two of us... and really, it's probably something we just consciously perpetuate back and forth because we so love the idea of being Ryu and Akuma, Link and Ganon, Gandalf and Saruman, Mega Man and Proto Man.

Seriously though, how cool is that kind of story? Two from the same origins, one becoming twisted (or enlightened) and finally facing off with his oldest friend/rival? It's so simple, but so effective... for me, at least.

I leave you with Proto Man's speech to the crowds of men gathered to watch Mega Man fight their battle for them:

Tell me now. Is there a man among you here?
Is there no one who will stand up and try to fight?
Tell me Man, is there not one in all your ranks?
Is there not one who values courage over life?

They looked to me once. Now they turn to you. Do you understand now?
Do you see that the truth is they don't want to change this?
They don't want a hero. They just want a martyr, a statue to raise.

I've given every thing I can.
There are no heroes left in man.

Haven't written in a while, Diary! Not sure what to write about now! Eeek!

Went to Soprano's last night with Ben, David, Matt, and Matt's charming new ladyfriend Ashley. Had a wonderful time. Sang Rick Astley--what more could I ask for? Also got really drunk. Also walked 20 minutes through town without shoes, doing Ashley's feet a solid by lending her my dope-ass K-swiss. I don't actually have K-swiss shoes, but I figured it's a brand people would recognize.

I've ever so much reading and writing to do for the next two weeks. After that, it's summer. Ben and I were reminiscing about the best summer the other day, and we agreed on the Summer of '07. We had a lot of fun back then: quite a few gatherings and house parties, we were making good money... it was nothing but quick indulgence after quick indulgence. I want this summer to be even better, but it doesn't necessarily have to achieve that greatness through cheap thrills. I'm gonna spend more time with people I like who've been busy with schoolwork, I'm gonna spend time with little brudder and little sister, and visit the parents often. They love me over there. Gonna see a lotta movies, gonna read a lotta books... Also, gonna give late-night dancing a really fair shot. Once a week would be good. Maybe that's an overly-ambitious goal, but damn it'd be fun.

Summer Dreamin'!

Made this yesterday for funzie-wunzies, Diary. Thought a different form of media might help satiate your ever-growing appetite for Tom-trivia.

I actually set it to a different piece of music, but popped in a new song that happened to work for most of it.

I don't really make these with the intention of having them viewed as creative projects; for me, rather than looking back on a photo album of a trip or event, I can watch this quick little video as a really streamlined representation of the whole shebang.

Tofino Trip from Tom Ippen on Vimeo.

If you just NEED to get that song, it's Jetpack Blues, Sunset Hues by Anamanaguchi.

Morning, Diary. Sorry to leave you alone for a few days like that. I've been a busy little boy, I have.

Saturday morning I woke up at 5am, piled into a car with Ben, Simon and Alex, and tried to keep myself existing for the duration of the 5 hour drive to Tofino. Have you been to Tofino? Home of over one art gallery and more than 10 surfing outfitters, it is truly god's country. The trip was actually quite interesting. Let me fill you in:

We drove through light, we drove through rain.
We felt its sting, the pelting sleet,
And as it voiced its cruel disdain
We rounded Malahat's tow'ring peak;
The heavens couldn't stop our train.

Though Spring's kiss was but days away,
Our path was strewn with snow and death
Undeterred, we'd not give way
To the island's cold, repelling breath
(I saw in it utter dismay).

Snow melted into groping hands:
The northern folk, downcast and crying
For ferry from their dismal lands;
We gave no thought to even trying.
It did not mesh with selfish plans.

We quested not for liberation
Of the port-folk, slow and tired,
No time to move them from their station.
Ours was for nature: raw, inspired,
And ocean-rider's admiration.

We were then welcomed to this place
Of ancient art, forgotten ways,
By Great Pacific's steely face
And rider's heart was set ablaze
By Ocean's living, glad embrace.

To they, the folk of old Tofino
We flaunted grace and skill unknown.
Through my judgment of their degree, "No,
Their seeds of fate have long been sewn.
They are condemned to dwell in limbo."


That's the end. I'm calling that the end. I wrote another stanza, but, quite frankly, it sucks hard ass. Wanna see it? Wanna see the lost stanza?

At road's end they all found great success,
My colleagues, delighted with the trip.
But Tofino-folk with pity I addressed
Unseeing of cold pride's scalding tip
The shame I bear cannot now be redressed.

I couldn't get the pentameter to work, and then class started, and I won't touch it again. So there you have it. Not bad off the top of my head, right? It was fun to write, either way. We'll call this Tom Ippen's Experiment in Poetry #1.

More to follow? Stay tuned!

Hello, Diary. Once again I find myself in Biblio Café, with a 3 hour break and nothing to keep me entertained. You know the internet? Turns out there's not as much stuff on there as everyone says. I'm over it.

Let's see... what have I been up to lately... You know, I don't think I've mentioned anything to do with Street Fighter in the past few weeks. This is alarming, as I've played it every single day since its release. I can quite confidently declare that it is my favourite fighting game of all time. There are some close runners up: the immediate challenger that pops into my mind is Soul Calibur, but I'd have trouble picking which iteration. King of fighters is boring, Tekken was never my thing, and Virtua Fighter always feels sloppy and weird. I guess Smash Bros. qualifies as a fighter, sort of, but it still wouldn't take precedence over my beloved SF4.

Seriously, anyone who hasn't should go out and play this game. They have it at EB on display, you could buy your own, or you could come to my house and get your ass beat. Besides loving the precise gameplay and unique visual style, I love what the discussion this game generates in my home. Simon and I will always start up conversations reporting the day's findings to one another; discovery of useful combos and strategies, opinions on character strength and situational usefulness, the online community, the tournament and high-level playstyles... there's a whole world of Street Fighter that I, regretfully, am just now discovering with significant commitment.

Other than this, and reading, one of my latest little joys is addressing Ben with a different lady's name every time I speak to him. Now, listen, I'm not trying to make any suggestions about Ben, nor am I trying to be derogatory to women by declaring that Ben should be counted among their ranks. I've seen this joke play out on a bunch of tv shows and movies (I can't recall precisely which) and the idea that it isn't a nickname, but something that reaches a great deal further interests me. It's not like he's just "Leslie" from now on; he's Leslie at the beginning of the sentence, and by the end he's Beth. You know? He, Ben, inspires the appearance of an infinite number of transient women. There's this suggestion that his personality exudes this morphing quality that can't be pinned down by one nickname. I don't know what I'm saying here. Maybe I just like nicknames and I can't decide on one. Maybe this is offensive. Television made me do it––i'm so impressionable. My bad. He got a haircut last night. I'll start calling him "Haircut."

Good afternoon, Diary. Know what I've been thinking about? How I begin every post here by addressing you. It occurs to me, Diary, that you're nothing more than a moniker given to the space I place all my whimsical thinkings and shenannery. Perhaps I should stop addressing you personally; it might alienate my readers. 

Oh, what am I going on about? Without you, they wouldn't have a place to come and read my thoughts. I apologize for all that nonsense. You're still number one, Diary.

I don't have any stories for you, this time, (is that a good thing?) so I think this'll just be one of those classic updates. Life's pretty good, as usual. If I'd a harder go of it every day––if I didn't have enough money to get by, if I was disabled in some way, if my relationships with friends and family were strained, if I had a debilitating drug addiction––these posts would be considerably more interesting, but I don't think it'd be worth the trade-off. Thank you, universe, for placing me in the body of an upper-middle class caucausian male in a technologically and socially developed society. I am eternally grateful.

Things that can get in my head and stress me out are few and far between, but eventually they'll bore their way in and make a mess. After declaring my double-major and immediately regretting it, I've been thinking about what I can actually do when I finish this degree. I'm leaning more strongly than ever toward switching back to a single Major, History, as it's really been rubbing me the right way of late. I'll see a career counsellor to see what my options are, though I'm pretty confident it'll go down the way it does in my head:

"Well, you could get your teacher's certification and go into secondary Ed."

"No, thank you. What else've you got for me."

"The government is always looking to hire."

"Wow. Great. Is that everything?"

"Yes."

"Fantastic."

I really feel like doing something with writing. Weather it's journalism, criticism, analysis, research, or anything else, I can really get behind that idea right now. I have tiny sparks of ideas that never take full form, but it would definitely be interesting to pursue a creative project sometime soon. Thinking about prospects like these, in turn, makes me worry about my ability, but I suppose I've always got time to refine and improve whatever style I have. 

Talking today in my Lit class was particularly interesting: we discussed ideas of originality, and how true originality doesn't exist, when you really get down to it. We were talking about Percy Shelley's Prometheus Unbound, and the fire he fell under for publishing it. He was basically assailed with criticisms to the tune of "what right have you got to manipulate this ancient story? Are you saying you're on the same level as ancient authors of Greek Tragedy?" The way Shelley saw it, you can't help but be influenced by the great artists you're exposed to. That's where ideas come from: manipulating themes and concepts to serve your own purpose and realize your own vision. It was really cool for me to think about, that there could be this awesome, timeless power that courses through humanity. It started as a formed vision, and has never been replicated, only tailored and adorned and twisted over the millennia by every human mind. Shelley imagined it as a great, collective lightning that fired through us and the one, connecting human heart, and moved through the ages. I really like that image––I want to contribute.

As far as strengthening my own capacity for thought and composition, all I can do is keep writing and keep reading. I've got a growing list of material to read over the summer, and I can't wait. My goal right now is to get at least one "must-read" book from everyone I know (or respect in some way) and check it off the list. It'll be a great window into fragments of people that, perhaps, lie unintentionally hidden. Friends, give me your favourite book titles! It's true, I do have some spare time right now, but I just can't get into recreational reading when I've got a massive stack of textbooks and articles demanding my attention. A summer of 2 hour busrides to and from work is looking to be a little more bearable.